


Of Withered Leaves and The Blessed Dark

by FrankieSpitfire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Folklore, Forbidden Forest lore, Healing, M/M, Male Slash, Non-Canon Content, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Tiny bit of plot, Top Harry, Witchcraft, mixed mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 01:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15037517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankieSpitfire/pseuds/FrankieSpitfire
Summary: The residents of Godric's Hollow know to keep their distance from the Dark Forest; the woods are deep and treacherous, teeming with monstrous beasts and shadows. Creatures with claws and teeth slip and stalk through the deep forest in the dark of night, with hungry howls and yellow eyes. It is filled with whispers carried by the wind; a whisper of something ghastly and beautiful. An old tale speaks of an ancient witch who lives in the forest; an otherworldly being of great power and beauty.Following his reckless friend into the dark and perilous forest, Harry Potter narrowly escapes a pack of massive bloodthirsty wolves. His life hangs by a thread but then he wakes in a strange cottage, under the care of a strange being of starlight and sorcery. A witch of ancient times, both fair and foul.





	Of Withered Leaves and The Blessed Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters. 
> 
> AU fairy-tale type of thing. Folklore and various mythological sources (I'm heaping it all together, so bear with me) This is basically a one-shot inspired by a rather lengthy George R. R. Martin reading marathon. Wizards do not exist in this world (no one has yet to invent the word, so every magic user is a witch. Doesn't matter what's in your pants. Go with the flow, okay?).There be porn. Did I mention the porn?
> 
> Slip me a cookie :)

 

**Of Withered Leaves and The Blessed Dark**

 

 

"We'll get in trouble!"

A redheaded young man only smirks, patting his pocket. "I have Dad's knife. Nothing's out there, you know. It's all just rubbish parents tell their kids to keep them from wandering into the forest. Nothing but bedtime stories." He dumps the sack he's carrying on the grassy ground and lets out a groan. "Look, mate...I need get my hands on something worth selling. Mum said winter is soon upon us. She knows these things. And there's not enough for us to survive on."

The redhead waits for a bit before waving his hand towards the narrow pathway that goes straight into the darkened woodland. "I know there's something hidden in there; something that might help my family survive the winter months."

It is an ancient forest; seething with a coldness that fills one's senses. The air is cooler there; a slight fog coils around the massive roots and fallen branches.

The early morning sun rays are not able to penetrate the thick woodland. Shadows creep, twisting around the trees and moving lazily above the black soil. There is a tangy smell in the air and the tops of the trees rustle without any wind. The forest is an entity itself, primaeval and rich with unknown forces; it feels as if the shadows are not just mere shadows. They are alive. Everybody knows this; legends and tales speak of it. Every villager living near the edge of it knows to stay away; they know to never breach the darkness that covers the accursed place.

There is a small town to the east and that is where the redhead plans to sell whatever he finds in the forest. According to an old tale, a temple used to stand in the deeper part of the forest; a place to worship the old gods. It now lays in ruins as the legend says, but there are those who still believe that treasures can be found among the remnants of what was once a sacred place.

Ronald Weasley is one of those people who hope to gain something valuable. The family of seven lives in a rickety cottage outside the village of Godric's Hollow. Ronald's two eldest brothers have settled elsewhere. Food is scarce; an unexpected dry spell leaving the land desolate and unable to bear any sort of life. With the winter season approaching, Ron is desperate to earn a few silver coins in order to stock up on supplies. He and his brothers try to earn as much as they can to help their parents.

"You don't get it because you haven't eaten potato peels to fill your stomach." Ron huffs as his friend tries to reason with him.

"Ron, listen to me," says the other man. "There is a reason why it's called the _Forbidden_ Forest. It's filled with blood-thirsty beasts, giant spiders, gruelling creatures of nightmares."

"Hermione reads too much. It's just a creepy old forest, Harry."

Harry usually agrees with his friend, but the forest feels insanely dangerous. His skin prickles. He senses eyes on him. Lusting after his blood, ready to tear his limbs off with their knife-like teeth. His parents had been killed by something with too many teeth and an appetite for human flesh—a creature the town elder had called a Wendigo. Hunters had tried to kill it before it could escape back into the nearby lake. That's why Harry fears the forest. It's full of nightmares.

"I'm going. You can come with me or go home, Harry." Ron slings the sack over his shoulder and takes the reins of his horse. If he doesn't find anything worth selling, they might have to eat the horse to survive the harsh winter winds.

Harry watches his stubborn friend, but he knows how foolish it is to enter the Forbidden Forest. Mothers have lost their children to the forest. Men have lost their wives. Harry doesn't want to lose his friend, but he can't stop him either. Ron is already walking deeper down the trail, pulling the horse along.

Harry decides to hurry back home. It's already getting dark outside as the young man pulls a fur coat over his shoulders. He takes a small axe and crossbow before heading out again. Harry is no great hunter; in fact, he's more of a scholar of sorts. He knows more about teaching children than he does about gutting hungry beasts but he has to do _something_. Ron hasn't returned and no one will help him. He gets three hunters to go with him—Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody and a young woman by the name of Tonks. All three are skilled and all have slain big animals and rabid wolves.

"What possessed that boy to go there?" Tonks asks as they ride towards the edge of the forest. "Reckless, idiotic twit! Does he not know of the dangers that lurk in that cursed place? Especially during night hours!"

"He believes that the old temple might still hold some sort of treasures."

Tonks sniffs. "If the wolves don't kill him, I just might. Molly will be so distraught once she finds out what her youngest son has done."

Kingsley and Alastor both halt at the same time, their horses starting to get restless. They are nearing the forest. Already Harry sees yellow eyes twinkling in the blackness of the forest. Cruel enticing eyes calling him deeper, pulling him by the tips of his fingers, the ends of his hair. Caressing his skin with soft, warm licks.

The four of them cross the pitch black mist surrounding the woods. It isn't the full moon shining in the night sky, but wisps of silver pierce the thick trees, making shards of light visible in the otherwise gloomy woodland.

Tonks, an excellent tracker, finds Ron's trace almost right away, but it takes them away from the path. The winding trail is the only thing that can help them get out of the place, but they are forced to leave it behind and step to the right. They trek through twisting branches, coiled roots and strangely curling tree stumps that loom over them. The moon is no longer visible. It's just utter darkness; sharp and besotting. The quiet is uncanny, making Harry's heart beat faster. All he can hear is his own heartbeat drumming in his ear. His teeth are clenched, tongue sitting uncomfortably in his mouth as he tries to keep himself from making a sound.

"I think I saw something," Kingsley whispers, his axe poises to strike. He turns his head a bit and hisses. "There!"

They do not notice it before it is too late. Six wolves trample towards them. Grey mixed with black and brown, the wolves hurtle down the small slope, eyes glowing amber, teeth sparkling white in the darkness. They snarl and growl, spit dripping down their snouts. Harry only has time to see just how big those beasts are before two of them charge. Alastor manages to strike one, bringing his blade down and cutting the wolf's ear. Another tackles Tonks but she kicks it off and pulls out both of her daggers. The silver glints in the shadows as she slashes away, hitting one wolf across the muzzle and embedding one blade in the beast's back.

Harry swings his axe but it is too small. He drops it and grabs the crossbow. Arrow after arrow he shoots, but the wolves keep coming. Some are lying dead around them, but more tear through the trees. Three grey ones storm ahead and they get Alastor. Harry stares while the older man is shredded apart, blood completely black under the moon's reappearing rays.

Kingsley yells at him and Tonks to run. They cannot overpower a horde of wolves. Tonks yanks Harry back and tells him to follow the path. He cannot fight as well and Tonks has to help her friend. Harry's legs ache but he keeps running. He can't see the path yet, but he thinks he's close. But he's not running in the right direction. He's running deeper into the forest. Into parts deeper and darker and far more sinister.

It feels like hours have passed since he started running but he's lost and scared. When he trips over a mess of roots sticking out of the soil, he doesn't even have the energy to brace himself for the fall. His glasses crack and they disappear under twigs and leaves. He can still see but everything is a bit unclear. Getting up is the hardest thing he has ever attempted. He's in pain and fear paralyses him from head to toe.

He crawls, pushing his hands into the wet dirt and moss. He pulls himself to his knees and then he hears it—a low snarling sound. He stays on the ground, hoping to remain hidden. But the wolves are not after him. Two of them, larger than any wolves Harry has ever seen, are squabbling over a piece of meat. They both have their teeth in it, trying to pull it away from the other. Harry clamps his mouth shut as he realises that it's a leg. A _human_ leg. The wolf tug-of-war continues. Harry looks around and tears gather in his eyes. He sees his friend's lifeless body, eyes dully staring at him. He has been torn apart, his arms scattered around him, half-eaten by the wolves. The ground around him is soaked with blood.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself away. But he stays there, right in the middle of a pack of hungry wolves and Ron's tattered corpse.

He's cold; his entire body quakes and shivers. He gasps in small, quick breaths because the air is freezing. He is huddled against a tree, slumped against it with his coat wrapped around him but it's still too cold. All he wants is to close his eyes and sleep a little. Just for a while. The wolves are long gone, running into the thick bushes, but he can't move away. He sees Ron's dead body and icy tears trickle down his face. He wants to take Ron with him so that his family can bury him and give him a proper funeral.

But he can't actually move. Lifting his arms feels like he has stones attached to him. Pain pulses under his skin. There is a cut on his forehead from falling. His knee aches because he twisted it while running and tripping. He is thirsty and his throat itches.

The sun seems to be rising because Harry can see some light peeking through the trees. The ground is covered in a delicate sheen of frost. It is December and the first snow is not far away. Harry thinks about the others, Tonks and Kingsley, wondering about their fate. He hopes that Hermione won't suffer because of his death. The girl is like a sister to him after all. He thinks about the children he often teaches in the village school. He thinks about Ron's parents and siblings. He thinks about Ron's sister who had hesitantly kissed him after he had taken her to the village dance. He thinks about the beauty he will never see, the wonder he will never experience, the sorrow he will never feel.

The world tilts and he sees blackness once more.

 

*********

 

When Harry opens his eyes, drifting somewhere between consciousness and blissful dreams, he feels warm. His nose stings from the cold but he feels his blood warming. He's on his back, stretched out on something soft, surrounded by heat and the loveliest smell of something fresh and cool. Like wildflowers and herbs and the soft droplets of water on a meadow. It fills his senses and he inhales deeply, feeling incredibly good and safe. He closes his eyes again, moaning in delight as something warm swathes him.

The next time he opens his eyes, he sees a soft light and hears the crackle of fire. A smell of rosemary and lavender drifts around him. But he is too tired to move. His eyes start to droop once more but he still fights sleep. He still fears—he can't pinpoint what exactly—but it still prickles in him like a prodding needle. From the corner of his eye, Harry can see various trinkets hanging from the ceiling. Pretty tokens and intricate woven patterns of twine. There is a small circular window, but it's dark outside and Harry can't see anything beyond it. He sees dozens of colourful glass bottles and phials, cauldrons and all sorts of bowls, jars and cups.

He sleeps. And he dreams about blood and rumbling growls and Ron's muddled eyes. When he wakes next, he is shivering all over. He's cold but it also feels like his being roasted alive. A sort of delirium has him in its grip. He sees flashes of light and faces and a sharp pain shoots through him like lightning. The bed dips and a soft hand touches his forehead. Harry blinks, one of his eyes open enough to see what's going on. Although his vision is blurry and his eyes want to roll into the back of his head, Harry tries to stay awake.

He feels the touch and whimpers. Through the narrow gap of his open eyes, he sees radiance. He cannot describe it any other way. It's pure _brilliance_. It's the most beautiful person Harry has ever seen, so delicate and stunning that it may as well be a star. He can't make out all the finer details because it is all a bit too hazy for him, but his caretaker has lustrous silver-white hair; it is long and straight, like spun silk soaked in the sun.

Harry blacks out soon after discovering that he is being nursed back to life by an incredibly beautiful someone. He dreams of crimson eyes and snow-white hair twisted around his fingers.

He wakes a few hours later, trembling still. He's blindingly hot. The pillow under his head is wet from his sweat and tears. He wants to call out but he's too weak to speak. A cup gets pressed to his lips and cool liquid touches his lips. It dribbles down his throat, some escaping between his chapped lips. It's not water, but something sweeter.

He doesn't dream of blood when he falls asleep again. He dreams of sweet smells and silken touches. The fever, however, gets worse and Harry feels close to dying. Everything aches and tingles unpleasantly. His teeth clatter, making his bones quake.

He sees a bubbling cauldron in the fireplace as he tries to lift his head. He's in a cottage; it's not overly large but it looks decidedly comfortable. While the woods outside look harsh and wind-bitten, the cottage looks like thriving spring. There are flowers blooming in pots and green vines twisting around the wooden beams. Each piece of furniture looks carved by hand, from the very forest around the house.

Harry presses his face into the pillow again and heaves a laboured breath. His chest aches and itches. He coughs, wheezing by the end of it. He closes his eyes and drifts for a while, half-asleep and drowsy. He feels the cool touch of fingers against his cheek and throat. A sudden coolness rushes over his irritated throat and numbs the pain.

Harry forces his eyes open and sees his caretaker. He is still shivering from the fever but he is more lucid. He realises that the stranger nursing him back to health is not a woman. It's a man; a very _beautiful_ , lovely man with intense eyes. The colour looks colder than ice—ethereal and antediluvian and so very alien.

"Drink," the man says. The voice is smooth with lilting quality to it; like flowing silk.

Harry opens his mouth, uncaring whether he's gulping down poison or water. He's utterly captivated. But he soon falls asleep again, too exhausted to fight it.

He dreams of something strange. Hermione speaks of an old tale she had read in a book. She tells him about the witch who lives in the forest. An ancient witch of great powers and beauty. Hidden from curious eyes, protected by enchantments and magical charms. She tells him how this witch is feared by all but wise beyond anything. She tells him that the witch can heal and curse with a single touch, a single look. The witch is both fair and foul. More beautiful than any maiden, more stunning than any star in the sky, more striking than any vision found upon this earth.

Harry wakes, Hermione's voice echoing in his ears. He remembers the tale, enfolded between the golden pages of an old tome hidden away in the library of the village elder, Albus Dumbledore. The wise man had given it to Hermione to study and she had shared it with Harry. The tale of the witch queen deep in the treacherous Forbidden Forest is a tale people consider too fantastical to be true. Harry had always thought of it as an illustrious myth. Legends are often ordinary stories that acquire a varnish of overly embellished twists and elements of magic.

But as he opens his eyes again and sees the fair-haired man stirring something in a bubbling cauldron, Harry feels a trickle of fear down his spine. He watches as the man picks various herbs and plants from the table and throws them in one by one. After a while, he brings it to Harry in a small cup.

In a moment of panic and delirious thoughts swirling in his head, Harry groans and tries to push himself up. He's feeling faint again and the room seems slanted. He doesn't want to end up as someone's dinner; especially if he's dealing with a powerful witch. "Don't boil my bones...no meat on them anyway...don't eat me," Harry rambles, eyes unfocused and bleary. "Are you a witch...the witch who lives in the forest...this big, scary forest?"

The man sits on the edge of the bed and gently tips Harry's chin on, pressing a cup to his lips.

"No, no...please don't." Harry shakes his head, confused and afraid to die.

"Drink it, you foolish child."

Harry huffs, "M'not a child." But he opens his mouth and drinks. It's bitter and smells but he swallows it all down. His entire body slackens and for a moment, Harry thinks that he's done for, but he passes out before he can fully comprehend that he's, in fact, not dying.

 

*********

 

Harry sleeps for five days. He doesn't even move. When he stirs, inhaling the cold smell of ice and snow, he turns to his side and decides to sleep a few more minutes before he has to get up and go—he twists around and gets up on his elbows. He _remembers_. The aches, pains and fevered dreams. Running. Ron's dead body. A pack of wolves. The world comes back to focus and he realises that he's feeling rested.

It's not very bright inside the cottage but it is even darker outside. The wind howls and creaks. Harry sits up and surveys the room. He's under thick furs and dressed in loose linen pants but nothing more. The fire smoulders in the hearth, giving out muted heat. But he's alone. And he notices that there is only one bed and there are no other rooms.

He thinks about calling out for the other man but stops himself. If he's a witch then it might be better for him to just disappear before the fair-haired man comes back.

But he can't move. He _can_ but he doesn't want to. He's warm and the cottage smells so nice and comforting. He hears a noise and quickly gets back under the furs to feign sleep. The door opens, letting in a flurry of freezing air and then it groans as it gets pushed back. A swirl of heat overcomes Harry and he swallows the lump of fear lodged in his throat.

"You are feeling better, yes?"

Harry sighs, feeling that it's pointless to pretend and sits up. "Err...yes. I feel much better. Thank you, for—everything, really."

The man places a basket on the table. Harry sees that it is filled with plants and moss. He doesn't look at Harry as he moves around the cottage. Harry notes that the man is slender and graceful in his movements. He moves like a strange feline creature, almost without sound. While he _is_ slender, he is definitely not willowy like a woman might be. There is a restrained arrogance about him that is nothing short of enthralling. He truly is stunning, easily the most beautiful person Harry has ever laid eyes upon. Despite the soft quality of his features, he is clearly male. The softness is beguiling but also tampered by a touch of something wily.

He's wearing white fur over his shoulders; like the purest snow covering towering mountain tops in the far north. Harry can't see what's underneath, but he catches a glimpse of soft leather stretched over long legs.

"How—how did I get here?" Harry asks.

"I found you in the forest. You were close to death, shivering under those pitiable furs you call a winter's robe." The man nods towards Harry's clothes folded on the chair.

Harry feels a bit of his temper surging. His furs are not _pitiable_. He can't afford anything superior and it's not like he can kill a beast and skin him. He wants to retort but the man pushes a cup into his hand.

"Drink this. It will give you your strength back." The man moves silently around the room and disappears behind a thick drape that hangs on the wall. It's another room that Harry hadn't seen before. He comes back a moment later, glossy hair twisted into a loose braid. He's no longer wearing the fur, but a beige, silk robe draped in an elaborate manner.

"Do you require nourishment?"

Harry doesn't understand at first, but then he realises that the light-haired one is asking if he's hungry. He shakes his head but says, "Just some water, please."

The liquid is cool and refreshing but Harry's still wary.

"Why were you in the forest?"

"My friend—he...he wanted to find the ruins of the old temple. I came after him with three others, to find him. We were attacked by wolves...really _big_ wolves. I ran. I thought I was running towards the path but instead, I just ran deeper and deeper."

There is a glint of anger in the man's bright eyes when he says, "The old temple is a hallowed place of veneration. It is no concern of your kin."

"I—I know; I would never trespass on sacred grounds. It's just...Ron, my friend, he needed to find something to sell because his family is poor and they don't have enough food to last through the winter."

The man looks irate still and leaves Harry alone for almost an hour. When he comes back, he asks, "What is your name, child?"

"First of all, I'm _not_ a child. I'm pretty sure I told you this while I was hallucinating about getting eaten alive. I'm twenty-nine, not a _child_. And it's Harry. Harry Potter."

The man chuckles, the sound of it like clinking bells, and says, "You are a child to me, Harry."

"Perhaps, but I'm still not a child. I'm a man."

"I had noticed." The man says and moves to the small window, not seeing Harry's flushed cheeks. He gazes out of the window and hums. "Winter is here. The forest mourns the end of the fertile season. You will not be able to go home before the forest thaws."

Harry splutters. "But I have to get home! I have a job and I need to look after my sister and Ron's family. I _have_ to go."

"I am not keeping you here; you are free to leave." The man says, and Harry releases a breath before he goes on, "The forest is not a child's playground. It is older than the dawn of humanity. There are things that walk in the shadow of night; foul things that creep under one's feet. Creatures that stand behind you in the dark, waiting for you to turn around. Things you cannot see, things you are unable to hear. Forces beyond the living world, yet they are there, prowling ever so patiently."

"But...you can take me to the edge, right? You know this place better than I do."

"You care nothing for your life, child. I have healed you, but I shall not do it again. The forest is full of treachery; shadows that will lead you deeper and deeper."

Harry feels like screaming but he understands. He doesn't particularly _want_ to go outside. He nods. "If you're offering, I think I can stay. I don't fancy freezing to death any more than I want to end up as a monster's meal."

They stay silent for a while; it actually feels like hours. Harry watches the man prepare a meal. He's mostly watching his arse in snug leather trousers. He can't help himself. The man is too tempting. But he can't get Hermione's nagging voice out of his head. The tale of the witch living in the dark forest...what if it's true?

"I told you my name," Harry starts, sitting up in bed, looking for his shirt. "It's only polite to tell me yours, don't you think?"

The man stops and turns to face Harry. "Lucius."

"All right. Now don't be offended, but there's this old legend. About this powerful and ancient witch that lives in the Forbidden Forest. A witch queen of great beauty and terrible power."

Lucius laughs, face painted in amusement. "Is that so?"

"Obviously, you're a man. So you can't be a witch _queen_ , but...I sort of figured since you live in this exceedingly dangerous and eerie forest and you did bring me back from death's door, you very well could be a magic user. Not that it's bizarre or anything."

"You talk too much." Lucius smiles, but his eyes lose some of its shine. He brings Harry a change of clothes, noting that the young man _can't_ wear his ripped shirt any more than he _wants_ to wear it. It is a simple black tunic and a pair of trousers. "You are not entirely healthy yet; the fever weakened you greatly. I will make you another healing potion."

Harry nods. He is pretty sure that Lucius is the very same witch the tales are about, but Harry's never been one to believe in legends. But the wolves he had seen were just too gigantic to be normal wolves. Their golden eyes glowing in the darkness had not been normal either. Perhaps there are things in this world that he just doesn't understand yet.

"Do you live here alone?" Harry prompts.

"Yes."

Harry smoothes his neck and tries to look indifferent. "So you only have one bed? Have I been sleeping in your bed for—wait, how long have I been here?"

Lucius states, "You have been here for twelve days."

"Okay, so— _twelve_ days? Shite...Hermione probably thinks I'm dead. That's great, just bloody fantastic." Harry mutters to himself. "So I've been hogging your bed for almost two weeks?"

"Would you have liked to sleep on the floor?" Lucius questions, one eyebrow going up. "It is only proper to offer the half-dead wanderer a bed instead of a quilt on the floor."

"But if I am to stay here until spring...surely, you want to sleep in your own bed? I can sleep on the floor, you know. I've slept in worse places."

Lucius looks at Harry with a slightly tilted head, as if he's trying to understand the young man. It is true that Harry is a man, considering the lifespan of humans. But Lucius sees him as a child because he _is_ one in his eyes. He has seen the rise and fall of many human civilisations. He has seen stars form and burn out. Even the oldest of the dragons living in the mountains are mere babes to Lucius. Harry is as old as a single thought; a blink of an eye. 

Many have called Lucius a witch. A sorcerer, a deceiver, a temptress, a serpent and a demon. He is a wicked thing; part of his heart encased in the dark and the other warmed with light. Once upon a time, he had been a witch queen; fair and foul and fierce. A being of immeasurable power. A devourer of worlds. A giver of life and endless pain. Now he's a recluse living an unassuming life, surrounded by nature and beasts.

Humans, in Lucius' view, are all made to sin; it is part of human nature. It's a disadvantage to be mortal. Flawed, weak and corruptible; their very hearts are designed to want what they cannot have.

Harry's heart is unusually pure. That much Lucius had seen. He is not as powerful as he once was but healing still feels effortless to him. When he had found the young one in the forest, huddled under a flimsy robe, he had not wanted to take him to his cottage. Most who end up so deep in the woods deserve to be there. No one wise comes to these parts. But Harry had just lost the path that leads out of the darkest parts of the forest. Healing him had been a worthy task; he had been close to death. It was already wrapping its fingers around Harry's hand, gently pulling him under.

When he had first opened his eyes, Lucius had felt at ease. There had not been any malice in his gaze. Just confusion and sadness, but no greed or desire for destruction. Those stunning eyes of his, the colour of wild moss after the rain had been untainted; thriving and teeming with life. The gaze is vivacious and it makes an undisclosed corner of Lucius heart twinge with something. Humans usually bring trouble. He lives in a forest everyone fears because it offers a quiet existence.

Now there is a green-eyed, raven-haired boy in his home. He could send him away, but he won't survive an hour in the cold. He won't survive the things lurking in the dark.

 

*********

 

The first three days seem almost bearable. But Harry's getting restless. And he's bored. There is a large wooden chest next to the fireplace, filled with books. Some of them look old, some so fragile that they might crumble into dust. The writings on the covers are in a language Harry knows nothing about.

The top of the chest thumps shut, narrowly missing Harry's fingers. Lucius looks irritated as he says, "There is nothing for you to see."

"Sorry," Harry mumbles, sitting on the bed again. "I was just—"

"Sticking your nose into places not for you to discover," Lucius tells him and moves to throw some logs into the fire. "How do you feel?"

"Dizzy. Bit of a headache."

The fair-haired man hums and goes to rummage in a drawer. Harry watches as he starts grinding different herbs together. He thinks he sees Lucius' hands glow a bit, but it could be a trick of the light. "So what is it that you do here? Doesn't it get lonely...all alone here in this forest?"

"I appreciate the quiet."

Harry understands the dry retort but he's curious. "I'm annoying, I get it. But I want to know more about you. We're going to be here for a while."

Lucius never has visitors. Over the past two hundred years, he has aided a few children out of the forest, but he does not reveal himself. He has a general fear of humans. Primitive and close-minded, humans understand very little and almost always hate that which they cannot understand. Sorcery is one such thing. They either fear it and wish to destroy it or they want to use it and make it advantageous to themselves. "It is no concerns of yours."

"Look," Harry sighs, getting frustrated. "I'm not going to tell anyone about you. I'm not going to lead a horde of people here with pitchforks and torches. You saved my life; you didn't have to, but here we are." He sees that the man looks cautious and he can't blame him. He is fully aware of human nature. "My parents were killed by a wendigo. The village elder _believes_ that it was a Wendigo. My mum and dad were cannibalised. I was a baby when it happened. Hunters tried to shoot it with arrows and bludgeon it with hatchets but it got away. Limped to the lake and disappeared, bleeding and howling."

"No such creatures live in this forest."

"I know. No one has seen anything like that again." Harry nods. "I have a reason to hate beasts and magical creatures, but I don't. "

Lucius remains silent and Harry decides to keep his mouth shut, but then the man stops what he is doing and turns to face Harry. There is an ancient sadness etched to his features. "My people ruled these lands long before humans crawled out of their caves. We were servants of the old gods; worshipping the things humans have forgotten in their pursuit to tear down temples, to slaughter and enslave beings of magic, to leave behind a land as barren as their souls."

Harry sees sparks of rich green slither around the tips of the man's fingers.

"You write stories about the legends of old but you do not believe them to be true. You no longer fear the dark; instead, you toy with it, you invite it in, you let it fester because you do not _believe_." Lucius brings his hand to his heart, pressing it against his chest. The green glow fades. He turns back to his herbs.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to upset you, Lucius." Harry stands, unsure whether he should approach or not. He lets the silence fill the tense space before he dares to open his mouth. "What are you making?"

"A remedy for your faintness."

"Is there something I can do? I can help you if you want."

"No."

That's the last bit of conversation Harry gets out of the man. In the darkness, Harry huddles under a thick pelt. He has a quilt under him to soften the floor but he can't sleep. Not because it's cold or uncomfortable. He's thinking about what Lucius had said. It is true that humans are greedy and unreasonable; unable to cope with anything beyond their belief system. No one in town worships old gods or celebrates seasonal festivals. Instead, they have built a church in order to pray to a single god. No one even believes in magic as such. Many believe in little fairy creatures and monsters of the old, but they are all remnants of a time long gone. The story of a witch queen is a tale only the elderly villagers of remembers, having heard it from their parents. It is a tale considered too unbelievable to be real.

 

       *********

 

Harry attempts to squash down the dullness by doing something productive. He is denied of course, but after a lengthy and rather pestering monologue, Harry is granted the right to peel vegetables for dinner. He doesn't ask where the carrots and potatoes come from, seeing as it is winter time and they are in the middle of a thick woodland. But he hardly cares because he's hungry.

They work in silence. Harry peeling and slicing carrots, Lucius stirring the steaming cauldron.

Harry wants to ask questions about a lot of things. But Lucius is a tight-lipped being, preferring the silence over mindless chatter.

"Those wolves out there..." Harry clears his throat, placing the knife down for a moment. "They're not normal wolves, right?"

"What do you perceive _normal_ to be?" Lucius asks, his voice laced with an edge.

Harry shrugs. "Not the size of a bear, eyes that don't glow in the dark. That sort of thing."

Lucius doesn't say anything at first, but he takes a seat behind the table, carrying a small basket of mushrooms. He hands it to Harry. "Clean these and cut them up." There is a beat of silence before he says, "The wolves you encountered were dire wolves. They have inhabited this forest for thousands of years."

"But aren't dire wolves—" Harry snaps his mouth shut. _Of course,_ there are dire wolves. Massive bear-sized mythical wolves. "Right."

"They are the children of Fenrir."

Harry bites his lip, feeling awkward because he doesn't know how to ask. "And you don't mind living here, deep inside a forest brimming with wolves?"

The question lingers. The witch's eyes seem like glaciers of primaeval ice, locked within them both the wonders and curses of ages. He does not answer. But Harry understands. The wolves do not lust for the witch's blood; instead, they fear him. They shy away from him like snivelling pups, skulking under bushes and crouching behind the trees.

"I live in Godric's Hollow," Harry says, picking a mushroom from the basket. He doesn't expect Lucius to converse with him but he wants to talk. Just to fill the silence. "After my parents were killed, my mother's sister took me in. But she and her husband didn't really want me there. They made me sleep in a cupboard; I think that is a fairly good indication of their disapproval."

He stops to see whether he is talking to himself. Lucius seems to be listening, although he's silent.

"Hermione—she's like my sister—told her parents that my relatives treated me horribly, so Hermione's mother came to our house one day and told my aunt that I won't be living with them anymore. That's how I ended up living with Hermione's family. I was thirteen. But Hermione has been my best friend since I was six or seven. I met Ron when I was ten or so. That's why I had to come after him; he's my friend."

Lucius makes a noise; perhaps he understands, perhaps he does not. But that's how Harry feels. Ron would always act first and never think it through. Hermione is the level-headed one; she is far from being reckless. 

"Tell me to shut up if I'm annoying you, all right?"

Lucius takes the chopped mushrooms and the carrots, dumping them into the cauldron hanging above the sweltering coals. Harry observes Lucius' every move. The man's hair, a spilling of sparkling corn silk, cascades down his back, the tips of it reaching his waist. Earlier there had been an unadorned silver circlet decorating his flaxen head, but it is no longer there. Harry notes that Lucius tends to wear garments that no ordinary villager can afford; delicate silk, luxurious velour, rich brocade, soft and thick furs.

He is not very talkative, but Harry believes that Lucius rarely entertains guests so he's likely used to the quiet. Harry likes watching the man, memorising his expressions and movements.

When Lucius places a bowl of sapid stew in front of Harry, the young man notices a small frown between the man's brows. So he takes a deep breath and says, "If you don't want me here, I can leave. I'll find my way home."

Lucius moves past Harry to retrieve another bowl for himself. He takes a seat, and despite all his poise, manages to look ill at ease. "I do not receive many visitors. I am unaccustomed to any company."

"Do you ever venture beyond the forest?" Harry questions. He sticks his spoon into the stew and pokes it a bit.

"Everything I need the forest provides," Lucius tells the other man with a curious look as if he can't figure out why he would leave the forest.

Harry can't understand why anyone would want to stay, but he doesn't comment on it. Maybe he'll figure it out during his extended stay.

 

*********

 

Over the next three week, Harry learns about various herbal medicines and plants Lucius gathers and stores. He learns about salves and balms and brews that heal. He learns about poisons, elixirs and concoctions of great power.

Harry helps with the cooking. He makes sure there is a fire blazing in the hearth. He tidies up the cottage. Lucius is more forthcoming than before but he still keeps silent whenever Harry inquires about his past. The man no longer avoids Harry; they often sit by the fire, Lucius trying to teach Harry about the old ways long disregarded by so many. Lucius tells Harry about different types of wards that keep away malevolent spirits and unwanted guests. He ties together ivy and sprigs of rowan and blue flowers to make enchanted charms.

It all fascinates Harry but he feels as if though he will never truly understand the bewitching creature with his silky flowing voice and polished moonstone eyes glinting with the knowledge of epochs.

The winter season is callous and rough, beating the land with bitter, sharp winds; scorching it with icy lace-like snow that looks too pure, too clean. Harry feels a piercing sense of guilt as his thoughts drift to Ron's family; cold and hungry and mourning. Missing a child. He feels guilty for _not_ thinking about them. He's warm and alive, blood swelling in his pink limbs as Ron's lay ravaged and gnawed under a coat of white crystals. He feels guilty for enjoying the company of an enthralling being of radiance and heathen ways in an isolated woodland overflowing with teeth and treachery. He tries to stifle the desire he feels deep in his gut. It slithers inside like a snake in a heated burrow, slinking and stretching and shaking its scales. It's green like the glimmer of magic dancing over the witch's fingers; an entity soaked in life and loss. Magic flecked with gold; the shade of light hair rippling like a cold river. It has eyes like diamonds glinting under water; speckled with pricks of silver. This longing grows with each passing day, a lacquer of want covering all sense based on reason.  

It drives Harry insane—this stirring of worship and affection like wildfire. Boundless, blessed, all-consuming and so very frightening.

During one particularly tiring day, Harry settles down on the bedding by the fireplace. He closes his eyes. But they won't stay shut. From his spot on the floor, Harry sees the bed. He misses the intoxicating smell of it; like frost and fresh lavender. It's not just the scent that interests him. He sees a glimpse of Lucius, still awake and hanging up dried flowers tied together by a ribbon. The soft tresses that reach down his back have been braided into a loose plait, but Lucius seems to be unravelling it.

Harry closes his eyes again when the man lets his flimsy robe fall down his shoulders, revealing smooth, pale skin. He doesn't remove the thin bands of leather trinkets around his wrists. Then he makes a slim braid into his hair, starting from the top of his ear, and twists a piece of green string into it.

Harry moves his hand over his hardening cock, palming it through his pants. He bites his lip to stop himself from making any noise. The fair-haired man stands, his back to Harry, but even that makes all the blood rush to the young man's lower body.

Sex is not an unfamiliar notion; Harry isn't shy about such things. But he hasn't bedded anyone like Lucius before. A few months ago, he had thought of Ron's sister in a more or less romantic manner. But whereas Ginny is fiery and frivolous, Lucius is luminous. He moves with silent steps, like a soft gust of air. With such _grace_. His voice slinks under Harry's skin without effort and the very blood that runs in Harry's veins becomes colder. He enjoys the bite of ice. The man smells of spring, of white flowers and frost-bitten leaves. A creature of effeminate beauty but by no means a dainty nymph.

Ginny's face is a blur of red and freckled brown. The witch queen fills every sense Harry has.

The cottage is plunged into darkness as Lucius snuffs out the candles. Harry shifts under the quilt, pushing his hand inside his pants. He lets out a shuddering breath as he grasps his aching cock and rubs it with hurried strokes. He can't find any relief but perhaps it is for the best. He would hate to explain the need for a new quilt.

 

                                                                           

*********

 

It happens again the next night and the next after that. For a week, Harry endures it. Then comes the coldest night yet; the icy winds whine outside the protected cottage, needle-sharp and ceaseless.

Harry trembles. He tries to be quiet, but his teeth clatter so loudly that it makes the entire cottage rattle. Lucius isn't in the room but he appears a few hours after Harry gets settled down on his makeshift cot.

He notices the shivering lump by the fireplace. "If you are so cold, then why don't you ask for more furs?" He sounds almost amused.

"I don't want to be a bother, that's all."

Lucius clucks his tongue and says, "You may sleep in the bed, Harry. I will not need it tonight."

"Wha—I'm not letting you sleep on the floor in your own home, Lucius!" Harry pushes the furs aside and sits up. Then he gathers the furs around his shoulders and stands. "I'll take the chair, okay."

Lucius looks at him with a slight tilt, like a curious animal, and says, "I will return by dawn. Do not leave the cottage while I'm gone, and try not to snoop."

"You're going outside? It's a fucking blizzard out there! You'll get yourself killed, Lucius."

There is a glint in the man's eyes; a sliver of gleaming mercury. The white fur coat is warm, but it won't help against the winter winds of the north. Before Harry can say anything else, Lucius walks out the door.

Harry frets for hours. He wants to go after Lucius but he knows that it's a foolish thought; he will find his end in the storm. But he's worried. He shouldn't be, but he feels such a deep sense of fear. He fears for Lucius and that itself is startling. He realises that over the many days of wakefulness, he has come to care for the fair-haired man. He watches Lucius almost constantly. He cannot help himself; sharing a small space with someone so tempting is testing Harry's self-control. The seed of fondness has developed twigs and sprigs and branches and it is no longer a flickering of emotions. Harry knows that he has come to care for Lucius. His heart trembles with the emotion, pulses with the blood spreading around him and traps him under its heavy bulk. A quiet adoration slipping its vines inside Harry, burrowing deep unassumingly.

It knocks the sweet air out of Harry's lungs. Grips him almost violently. It thrashes like a beast on a prowl. The feeling of _love_ swells, fluttering like a butterfly's wings in a gale. In the darkness, in the silence, Harry feels it split and shatter. _Love_. A love that makes his whole body ache. A love that transcends above that of familial affection, of a bond between siblings, of a comfort of friendship. 

But Lucius does not return. The dark starts to fade and shadows recede deeper into the woods. Harry sits on the bed. Then he starts pacing. Then he sits again. He is a bundle of nerves. He sees his fur coat draped over the back of the chair and gets up. He's going out to look for the man before he goes completely mental.

He runs into Lucius as he yanks the door open.

"Where the hell have you been? You've been gone for _hours_ , Lucius!" Harry barks, eyes swirling with bursts of angry green. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"

Lucius doesn't speak; he just moves past Harry and removes his coat.

"I thought you got mauled by wolves. That maybe you were bleeding out somewhere." Harry's temper surges and he wedges himself right into the man's space. "I've been worried sick!"

Transfixed, Harry watches the man wet his lips, a sort of voracious look in his eyes. He doesn't think and smashes his lips against the blond's, greedily sucking on the man's tongue. Lucius is hesitant, but he lets Harry in. Pushing his leg between Lucius' thighs, Harry edges his knee upward and smirks to himself as the man's lips parts, a soundless moan slipping over them like a secret.

Harry lets one of his hands wander without thought. He slips it behind the other's neck, his fingers curling around the lustrous hair. Giving a small tug, Harry exposes Lucius' throat. He can already imagine his teeth marks reddening against the perfect skin there and he mouths it with his lips, tracing the velvetiness. It is no effort at all to slip his tongue between the nicely-shaped lips. The ferocity of the kiss punches Harry in the gut. The blond's chest arches against Harry's, their bodies fitting tightly against one another. There is a delirious rush of emotions gripping Harry all over, but he is too aroused to stop. Instead of pulling away—instead of gaining back his senses—Harry moves the hand resting on Lucius' hip to the curve of arse. Despite standing up, Harry feels like his falling; like he is standing upside down.

But he comes down from the high as he realises his actions. Lucius doesn't push him away in disgust but there is a splinter of sorrow in his eyes. He turns away and distances himself.

"I shouldn't have—I'm sorry." Harry shakes his head, rubbing his lips. He can still taste the sweetness. But also the tang of madness.

Lucius just nods briefly and leaves the room. Harry mutters a litany of curses under his breath and sits. His knees feel disjointed. His skin prickles; like a rash.

There is a flow of sensations within Harry. He wants to despoil Lucius; sink deep inside and claim every inch of his radiant skin with his teeth. But he doesn't know Lucius. He's quite possibly an ancient witch of legends. There is something cold and broken about him that calls to Harry. He wants to wreck everything that's pure about Lucius.

Harry sits on the bed for hours. Lucius doesn't show himself either. It's close to midnight when Harry decides to turn in for the night. He looks at the bedding on the floor and feels a spark of anger. He should have left. Sitting there, despondent and irritated, he doesn't see or hear Lucius as he walks towards Harry.

A moment later, Harry looks up and his breath hitches. Lucius is in a flowing velour robe, long silver tresses caressing his shoulders. The material seems almost translucent and displays the man's smooth waist, his arms lithe and skin glowing. He is wholly arrogant and shameless as he kneels before Harry with a calculated elegance, his quicksilver eyes bathed in vanity. Lucius glides his hands over Harry's knees to his upper legs and brings them dangerously near to Harry's crotch. The young man instantly spreads his legs and watches the silver-haired man kneel between them, head slightly tilted. He places his palms against Harry's thighs and looks up—he is hoping to see approval, permission, attention. He gets Harry's wholehearted _anything_ , _everything_.

Harry doesn't open his eyes until his cock is freed from its confinement. He can't help himself and wraps a hand around it to fist it a few times. It provides no relief. Instead, he looks into gleaming eyes full of ferocious desire and lowers his gaze to the wet, kissable lips. Then a hot tongue runs down the length of his cock, worshipping every inch of it until most of it has been explored.

Harry watches as the witch's eyes flutter shut, brows knitting together in both delight and wavering as he draws Harry deep into this mouth again. The vision of him, tainted and flushed, Harry's straining members embedded in his throat, entirely breached—it makes Harry's heart flicker in a wild rhythm. He cradles the flaxen head and gently tugs the man off, 

Covered with a sheen of spit, Harry gives his flushed cock another two or three pumps and teases the head of his cock against rose-coloured lips. Lucius' searing mouth fits around him perfectly; silky and tight and dexterous beyond any of Harry's wildest dreams. The thread of wrecked moans that escape past Harry's lips seem to spur the fair-haired man into action and Harry's cock hits the back of his throat again, defiling and choking the witch.

The sight of the porcelain-limbed enchanter—voracious and corrupted, slipping down Harry's cock over and over again, rosy lips stretched wide—is utterly filthy. The blond looks enticingly debauched as he hollows his cheeks, sucking Harry down with such intensity that the young man has to grip the edge of the bed.

"Ah, fuck—" Harry all but chokes as the viper sinks down on his cock again, his tongue sweetly caressing the underside of it. Harry's hand slips into the mesh of sleek hair and keeps the lovely thing sucking on his cock in place. He wants to fuck the perfect mouth and gives a shallow thrust. Then another and a few more. A throaty moan tears free and it seems to please Lucius, for he slides all the way down, his teeth gently grazing the rigid flesh. Gritting his teeth, Harry says, "You are determined, aren't you? _Lucius_."

Lucius seems to chuckle with amusement, the vibration going through Harry as well, and Harry grips his hair in a fierce clasp. It makes the wicked thing moan around Harry's cock. Harry wrenches him off by the fistful of hair, but he takes great care not to hurt the man. He looks down and holds back a groan as the man driving him crazy runs his tongue over his abused lips and seems hungry for more. And Harry wants to give him more...so much more. But he also wants to savour it and pull every bit of pleasure out of the man and he wants to see him open and dripping, body taut with need and desire for Harry's cock.

He leans down and presses his lips against Lucius' faintly swollen ones and feels him give into the pushing and prodding. Harry whispers between chaste kisses and hungry licks, "I want to stretch you open, make you fuck yourself on my cock like a pretty whore. You do want that, don't you, Lucius? You want me to fill you, spread you wide and make you drip with my come?"

" _Yes_ ," the desperate hiss Harry gets in response seems to tremble in the room.

Harry urges Lucius to sit astride his lap. The robe falls down the blond's shoulders, falling open at the front, revealing pale skin. Harry catches a glimpse of rosy cock pushing against the flimsy fabric.

There is indecision painted over flushed ivory cheeks. "If I do not please you, I can change my form."

"You're beautiful." Harry brings his mouth against the man's neck, peppering it with soft kisses and sharp nips. He says with ringing conviction, "I want you like this, Lucius. Nothing about you needs to be changed."

He seals his mouth over pliant lips in a violent kiss. Each brazen moan gets swallowed by Harry as he fervently kisses Lucius. He feels the man's spine tremble under the tips of his fingers, arching under his hand.

With his lidded gaze, Lucius whimpers ever so softly as Harry bares his body and throws the robe on the floor. Defiance has left him. Harry is incessant and determined; it is so easy to fall. Effortless to yield. It has been too long. Lucius has not felt another's touch for more than a century and Harry handles him like a fragile glass trinket.

Bodies pressed close, Harry sidles his hands up the blond's sinewy thighs. He palms the other's cock, feeling the velvety flesh and smooth sensitive skin. Harry growls out, a glint of something feral in his gaze, "Prepare yourself. I want to see your fingers sinking deep inside. Pleasure yourself, _witch_."

He watches Lucius move on the bed, his skin pale against dark furs. With his legs spread, Lucius slips one hand down to his unattended cock as he balances himself on his knees. The moment he lifts himself off the bed, back curving, creamy flesh pushed up, Harry wants to join him but he keeps watching and spots the exact moment the witch works a greenly glowing finger inside. Harry fully turns around on the bed, positioning behind the blond. He trails his hand down the slope of Lucius' back to the top of his arse and watches two fingers smoothly move in and out the tight blushing hole.

"Such a pretty sight." While the scene has Harry's complete attention, he feels a deep need to touch the man himself. After a while, Lucius grows breathless and profoundly flushed, his eyes half-lidded, bottom lip impossibly tantalising from biting it too hard, pretty pink hole twitching with need—Harry has not seen a more licentious creature. Lucius parts his mouth, a strangled gasp stuck in his throat as Harry brings his fingers to join his own and pushes one finger inside. The man's back bends beautifully as Harry grabs his wrist and pulls his hand away. His tongue traces the rim of the sensitive flesh, teasing the tip of it over the twitching and flushed opening.

Harry's boldness comes from a hidden place deep inside. He dares to take, to ravish and push Lucius towards the maddening heat. He feels fierce adoration fill him. He circles his tongue over the lovely twitching hole and tastes spring dew and affluent soil and honey oak.

Pleased with his work, Harry grabs his lover's hips and pulls him against his own body. Legs spread apart so that it almost hurts, Lucius arches his back like a cat as Harry glides the head of his cock over the hidden place a few times before resting his cockhead directly against the tight pucker. "Do you want it?"

Lucius, his face pressed against the furs, chest flattened, whispers a husky 'yes' and twists his fingers into the soft pelt. Harry presses his cock inside, gasping at the fluttering feeling in his chest and around his hard member. The tight ring of muscles protest and clench but it is too glorious to stop. The incredible tightness only lasts for a few minutes and then it smoothes out some, the muscles relaxing against the intrusion. Greedily pulling Harry deeper. Deeper inside the witch, deeper into the woods, deeper into blissful madness.

Overwhelmed by the blistering, convulsing heat, Harry slams all the way inside, filling his lover completely. He gives Lucius a moment to adjust before he gives another sharp thrust. It is still incredibly taut and hot, like burning velvet. Sweet like the nectar of wildflowers. Harry moves his hips, working his cock inside, but he feels half-satisfied. He is missing something.

Harry pulls Lucius up to sit on his knees and brings an arm around him. He nips at the man's shoulder, lips tracing the skin as he rocks into his body. "I want to see you. You look so stunning like this; arse swallowing my cock so perfectly, skin glowing, eyes bring and wild."

The sea-foam silver eyes seem almost indigo blue with arousal and Harry can't help himself; he pulls the man into a deep kiss. He is still embedded deep inside and shifts his hips to give another shallow thrust. "Fuck yourself on my cock, lovely."

Harry rests his back in a heap of feather pillows. He keeps a hand on his cock, holding it in place and waits. He doesn't have to wait too long; Lucius is already straddling him, balancing himself on his knees as he lines himself up. He gives the jutting member a few strokes, flicking his wrist up and down the length. Then he drops himself on it, hissing in sweet, pure, urgent pain as he goes down. Slanting his body like a doll on strings, he waits a short moment, letting Harry's hands roam over his sides and legs, tweaking his nipples and lightly bouncing cock. 

After a breathless moment, Lucius lifts up and impales himself, legs tensing as he moves. Harry's cock is snugly in place as the fair-haired witch jolts his body up and down, swaying his creamy-white hips to grind down on Harry's groin.

Harry is in awe of the sight; a stunning, lean body rocking on his stiffened cock, twisting and bending. Devouring him whole. He laces his fingers together with the man's and holds him upright. He wants to see himself slipping in and out, stretching the pink hole as he pushes in. He wants to sink his fingers alongside his throbbing cock and feel the extraordinary heat. He thrusts up each time Lucius lowers himself and interrupts his rhythm. He is met with narrowed, almost angry eyes as he tries to take charge. The graceful, elusive being wants to control Harry's pleasure as well as his own, but he really doesn't know Harry.

The green-eyed man flips his lover under him and presses deep. He grabs Lucius' legs and bends them at the knee and then wrenches the splayed thighs to his hips. He pulls out and drives right back in with a brutal sort of urgency. He doesn't want to be slow or steady; he wants it to burn and he wants to make his lover need him like he needs air to breathe. And he's nearly there—the burn is luxurious, building up with each plunge and drag of Harry's cock. Lucius trembles and shivers with his eyes fluttering shut—overwhelmed, owned, possessed entirely.

When the flaxen witch tenses, body arching and trembling all over, Harry too feels strained by both the sight and the sensations. Harry fucks Lucius through his shattering, soul-grabbing climax, abusing the sensitive pleasure spot with determination, and he doesn't let up even when he hears overwrought whimpers. He lets the man claw at his back in transcendent bliss. It's otherworldly, devastating and pulsing with an illicit need.

Wolves howl under the thin strip of the moon and the ground trembles. Magic leaks from every crevice, every fissure, every part of the land.

Harry buries himself to the hilt and shudders, the coil of completion untying the cords of pleasure. He feels utterly drained. But he is feeling incredible; he is exhausted and prickly, but satisfied and very pleased. Complete. Possessive. Undying.

Lucius still clings to him, silently panting as he comes down from the high of it. They stay like this for a while, sharing languid kisses and soft touches. The green-eyed man traces his fingers down sculpted curves of star-light marble. Insatiable and wretched, so divine that no other will ever compare. Steely eyes softened to melted ice, enamoured and impeccable. Sullied but untainted.

Briefly, Harry thinks of the man's offer to please him in another form. Supple female curves, downy skin, a wet cunt hidden between long legs carved out of glass—that is what Lucius had offered, fearful of rejection. But Harry doesn't want that, had not even considered it at the time. He desires the witch queen as he is; wrapped in transparent silk and white tulle, a shroud of speckless hair spilling down his back, crownless and braided with flowers of glinting blue and lilac.

Harry glances over and smiles—Lucius is curled against him, hair slipping over his shoulder and he has fallen asleep. Harry can't fault him. In fact, he thinks it is a good idea considering the recent activities.

 

*********

 

Harry wakes, tangled in alabaster limbs and silken hair. He's sore but pleasantly so. Lucius is still asleep; lashes framing his platinum eyes that could drain Harry from life. His slender leg is thrown over Harry's own, warm and supple against him.

His usually cold features now seem gentle in comparison. Harry has no doubt left in his mind that Lucius is the one legends have been written about. A witch who can heal but also destroy. The tight velvety walls had enchanted Harry, utterly and irrevocably ruined him. Driven by the most spiteful desires and darkest of whisperings, Harry had surrendered to it. Succumbed to Lucius' milky thighs spread obscenely wide, his hungry body keeping Harry's girth deep inside, pulling the very essence from the young man.

Lucius with his sorcerous eyes, ancient beauty of sublimeness and willing submission, his glossy spider-silk hair; ageless and flawless and wicked—a witch queen so fair and foul and forgotten. A crown of twigs and berries and frost had once adorned his golden head. Now there is no more crown, no more kingdoms of old, no more ancient gods, no more witch queens. Long forgotten and stripped of admiration and worship. Starved of prayers and sacrifice.

Harry inhales the rich scent of clean forest and budding leaves. He watches shadows dance on the ceiling. He has not seen his home close to two months now. Oddly enough, he does not miss it. He misses Hermione; the sister of his heart. But the girl likely believes him to be dead—no one survives this long in the Forbidden Forest.

Hermione will mourn and she will live on because she's a clever girl. She's sensible and logical. She will be just fine.

There is nothing for him beyond the forest.

Lucius stirs in his arms. Harry smiles to himself and places a soft kiss on the man's brow. He will keep the secret.

 

*********

 

Spring comes unexpectedly. Snow melts into the infertile ground, drenching it. Sun cannot reach the ground but winks above the black jostling tree-tops. The air smells warm, tickling Harry's nostrils.

He smiles sadly as he realises that it is time for him to leave. It forms a thick lump in his throat, a ball of brass wires in his chest, claws in his heart.

He had not slept during the darkest hours of the night, instead, he had made love to his witch. Sinking deep inside, eyes wildly glowing like green marbles in a mage's hand, Harry had whispered words of reverence. He had glided his fingers over diamond dusted skin, leaving behind sacred marks of admiration and flourishing love.

With the coming of morning, Harry had found an empty bed. He now sits on it, dreading the inevitable. Lucius is nowhere to be found, but he often ventures outside to gather herbs.

Harry waits for the sun to disappear behind the hulking trees. But he cannot leave. He knows that Lucius is giving him the time to slip away. He's taking his silent grief and sharing it with the forest, for he cannot bear to see Harry go. But he hasn't asked him to stay. That's all Harry wants to hear— _stay_.

He waits well into night hours and curls up on the furs covering the bed. Lucius does not appear until the night is at its coldest. The last of the shadows lingering.

Harry stares at the marbled dream of hallowed silver standing before him. His hands find Lucius' elegant fingers and he twists them together with his own shaking ones.

" _Harry_ —"

The younger one presses a kiss against rose lips to silence the man. "If you want me to go, I will. You will remain here, beyond ages, unchanging and mysterious. I will keep your existence a secret; I will guard your privacy with my life. You may sew my lips shut with golden wire and silence me if you wish. But if there is a chance...that you will have me...I would suffer a thousand bitter winters and wait for a thousand springs to arrive. With you, here, in this cursed forest filled with beasts and ruins."

Lucius closes his eyes, a strange string of ancient words slipping over his lips in a soft whisper. His hands glow bright emerald, swirling with tinted gold flecks. Harry no longer fears the strange talents of witches and only feels a warmth spread against his own hands. "Lucius. My witch queen of old."

"Will you truly stay?"

"Yes."

Lucius lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes the shade of a primordial storm. Harry's green eyes like a night-time sea grinding down stones. Legends are often simple tales made wholly imaginary and extraordinary. Harry does believe in terrible witches bathing in the blood of innocent maidens or witches called harbingers of death. But Lucius—ancient and eternal—has no crown, no throne of antlers and heavy stone of earth, nothing but his ill-fated forest teeming with wildness and whispers of darkness.

Harry cards his fingers through Lucius' hair and brushes aside a loose strand of feathery gold. "You have my heart."

"And you have mine," Lucius whispers. "For a thousand springs."

 


End file.
